My Cardboard Balcony

Ghirardelli Guy by Belinda Roddie Have you heard of the Ghirardelli Guy? He passes out hot chocolates after five, when the summer turns to dead winter at night; he'll add whipped cream if you're extra polite. The Ghirardelli Guy is eight feet tall, though his eyes and ears are very small. He's dark and thin like an electric wire, smiling with teeth as worn as a tire. He used to run a booth beside the bay, not far from where tourists bought their sundaes, all scooped and served with Ghirardelli treats, a city staple that could not be beat. The owner of the Ghirardelli shop was not fond of the odd and lanky fop selling hot chocolates melted from its brand, so she asked him to move his cocoa stand. So now he walks up and down Market Street, handing the homeless cups of confection sweet. The drinks are well-received, with twinkling eye. So skips along the Ghirardelli Guy.

Chester mowed the lawn, while Rosalyn raked the leaves. Their father drank a spiked iced tea on the porch, his eyes already glazing over despite the fact that it wasn't even afternoon yet. The heat would encroach the neighborhood in about an hour or so, so the teens were doing their best to get the yard work done before they were caught in a sweltering, humid haze.

by Belinda Roddie It wasn't much different each year - save for, perhaps, the type of beer he ordered, or his selection of sauces to go with his buffalo wings, or the brand of cigarettes he smoked outside while waiting for me to pay the check. Sometimes, on the drive downtown, he'd choose the radio station instead of me, or he'd hold off on using my cup holder as a makeshift ashtray until after we ate. Besides slight changes, it was always the same routine: Dinner at Langford's, before grabbing a six pack from the 5th Street Drugstore and making our way back to his condo. We were always pretty casual for Father's Day. We liked it that way. My father would have refused anything else. He was never a fancy guy, but that wasn't a bad thing; not everyone appreciates the formal shit. I sure as Hell didn't, so we fit right in at the corner booth close to the bar, ignoring the latest sportsball game while I had my typical Bleu cheese burger and my dad ordered hi...

Look above your head, and you will spot Sammy crawling across the ceiling again. She doesn't need the skills of Spiderman to do it - look, the skin on her hands naturally adheres to the plaster, but not too much, so she can move quickly. Try not to scream; this is normal in our household, and at least Sammy is never bored. It gives her poor mother a break.

It's nice to have gotten through one week of summer school. It's nice to know I'm moving into a new classroom next year and will have a studio and new computers. It's nice to return to my former town and have drinks and food with old friends who I haven't seen in a while. It's nice that I got my teeth fixed, even though they still feel a little wonky from the cleaning and fillings I needed. It's nice that I'll be able to celebrate another Father's Day with my dad by taking him to brunch and spending the day with him. ...Okay, I'm going to bed. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

Existential Crisis by Belinda Roddie As we edge toward infinity, I remember the number one.